


There Are More Things In Heaven and Earth

by Jade_Dragoness



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-09
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Dragoness/pseuds/Jade_Dragoness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson’s injury to his leg may have come from a bullet but the injury to his arm came from the bite of a werewolf too bad his kidnappers didn’t know that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I actually blame this on having seen the trailer for Wolfman every time I went to see the Sherlock Holmes movie and because werewolf!Watson appeals to me, and not just because I have a weakness for alliteration… and werewolves.

John Watson awoke abruptly, eyes wide with fear, gasping for air and clutching his shoulder.

Pain shuddered through his body, concentrating on his shoulder as if a glowing hot poker was being trailed gently against his skin leaving behind a sizzling line of red-black agony. Sweat slicked his forehead and made the cotton nightshirt cling unpleasantly. He clenched his teeth, and controlled his breathing until the pain lessened to a tolerable level. Watson shuddered then closed his eyes and lowered himself back against the down pillows of his bed.

It was the nightmare again. The nightmare that still had full power over him even after all these years because it was no ordinary dream. It was a nightmare of events that had actually occurred. It was a blurred memory, full of fangs, fur, pain and the sound of men screaming in terror. The feel of hot breath against his neck, of teeth that tore into his shoulder like dull blades and the certain knowledge that he would die just as so many other men had died under the jaws of that monster was what gave the memories a vividness that made the nightmare all the more powerful.

He slid his hand under his nightshirt and touched the scarred tissue the dug into his deltoid muscle and even into his biceps brachii. He traced the lines where fangs had sunk. They were practically hidden by the surrounding scars where the surgeon had pieced together his axillary artery to save his arm but he could feel them against his finger tips. Those scars felt hotter than the surrounding skin. Unable to stand staying still for a moment longer, Watson climbed out of his bed and walked slowly to his window. He flung apart the heavy linen curtains and stared up at the sky. Even through the heavy polluted air of London the moon hung heavy, a particularly malignant shade of orange-yellow, and nearly full.

Watson closed his eyes against the sight of it. He had two more days, and only one more night before… before his nightmare became a reality.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sleep now as the lingering nightmare still lurked in the dark corners of his mind too ready to attack again, Watson turned on the gas lamp of his room. He found the notebook where he’d been writing his memories of the last case he’d assisted Holmes. He might as well use his time efficiently. He hadn’t had a chance to put pen to paper about his memories though it had been weeks since that frantic incident that had ended to abruptly and spectacularly on the London Bridge.

Watson had a sharp longing for his room at Baker Street that caught the very breath in his throat with its intensity. Once, he would have been able to leave his room and seek the company of Holmes with certainty that the man would be awake. If anything else, Sherlock Holmes was a most excellent distraction to his troubles. He had been so nearly from the first day they had met and through all the years of their friendship.

He wished that Holmes was here.

Watson shook his head at his own maudlin thoughts and settled back against the pillows. He wrote carefully with his fountain pen as to not spill ink onto his coverlets and ignored the ache in his shoulder as it pulsed in time to his heartbeat.  
*-*-*-*-*

In the morning, after a passable breakfast from his housekeeper - who didn’t really hold a candle to Mrs. Hudson’s culinary skills though he was careful never to express this sentiment - Watson set off to see Mary off at the train station. His lovely fiancée was leaving London to see to a wedding of a friend and he was determined to enjoy the last sight of her that he would have for over a week.

He kissed her gently goodbye, and she touched his cheek in such a tender gesture that his breath caught before she entered the train. He stood at the station until he could no longer see her before heading to his medical practice to meet the last of his patients. He always made it a point of seeing the most urgent cases before he left, in case he needed to pass on their care to another doctor. Often it wasn’t necessary. The people that came to him were of sufficiently high rank that his patronage was more for health benefits than for urgent care.

His own fame, garnered along with the rise in Holmes’ own reputation, provided him with clients who enjoyed being able to refer to him as their doctor. This habit had risen sharply after the events surrounding Blackwood’s attempt to destroy Parliament. Watson, though he normally found it somewhat tiresome to have to deal with imagined ailments, was rather relieved that he would be able to disappear without it being detrimental to one of his patients.

It was shortly before lunch that he closed his office with a notice that he would be out of town for the next few days and headed back to his apartment to pick up his luggage.

It was then, walking without paying much attention to his surroundings, as he was unpardonably distracted by his own thoughts, that he was ambushed. Watson tried to shout but the hand clamping a cloth soaked with the distinct scent of diethyl ether over his nose refused to move.

He managed to land a punch on a nose that crunched under his fist before the darkness overwhelmed him.  
*-*-*-*-*

“Should ‘e be sleepin‘ for so long?” asked a gravely male voice thick with a Scottish brogue.

That sentence was the first sound that Watson was able to hear as he struggled against the lingering drowsiness. His chin was resting against his chest as his head slumped forward and the struggle to raise it was more than it should have been. He tried to move his arms and found that he couldn’t.

He confusedly tried again. It took several seconds for the awareness that he couldn’t move to sink into his full conscious. The realization that he was tied up made his eyes widen and finally jerk his head up in alarm.

Nausea made his stomach roll in protest and he groaned but he was muffled by a cloth gag in his mouth. Watson made an indignant protest and tried to spit it out only to realize it had been tied securely at the back of his head.

“See, e‘s awake. Nuh that I‘d ‘are. Bastard broke ma dose,” said another male voice. It wasn’t anymore familiar to Watson than the first. Though the high nasal sound distorting the voice didn’t help in identification. It did make Watson smirk in satisfaction.

“It is fortunate for you that he isn‘t dead,” said yet another man.

Watson shifted his eyes to the speaker. It took an effort to get his aching eyes to focus. The location he had been taken to was surprisingly dark. High windows were bleared with soot and the light that streamed in came more from cracks in the wooden roof than through glass. Once he was able to see his surroundings clearly, it nearly wasn’t worth the effort. He was in some sort of abandoned building, most likely a warehouse, considering its size. The lack of visible machinery ruled out a factory. Watson could also see empty barrels and broken crates littering the surroundings and even in the space between him and the men.

His captors, who had caught his movements, were the sort of ruffians that he was used to seeing as hired dockworkers or even in fighting rings. One of them had a bulbous red nose, no doubt the one that Watson had broken. The other was a larger man, who reminded Watson rather strongly of Dredger, if the man had a smaller brother who had a strong Scottish accent. It was thickness of chest and a stoic manner than any physical feature that brought the Frenchman to Watson’s mind.

The best dressed of the men was wearing a frayed gray frock coat, and had Watson’s cane in his hand. He also had on Watson’s hat which really irritated Watson. He had thought he had gotten away from having another man steal his clothing once he’d left Baker Street. The fact that he hadn’t made him fume and his hands clench into fists.

As soon as he saw that Watson was looking at him, the hat thief smirked at him. He said, “We need him alive. After all a trap works better with live bait.”

Watson stared for a second before he glared back with a mix of anger and exasperation.

Of course this was Holmes’ fault. Why did he even bother to feel surprised? Watson asked himself. Then he wondered how long it would take Holmes to track him down.

With any luck, he’d be out of this mess by nightfall.

The better dressed man walked closer to Watson. Watson glared up at him, contempt in his eyes. He struggled against the thick rope that held him so securely to the chair. He was disgusted to note that he couldn’t even kick. The hat thief stared at him until Watson was forced to stop struggling because it made his shoulder and leg start aching fiercely. The lingering effects of the ether didn’t contribute any benefits to his health.

“It wasn‘t easy to get the information about the detective‘s weakness,” said Hat Thief idly. “You don‘t want to know how much money I had to pay in order to find out that you were it. The only thing that could draw Sherlock Holmes off the chase.”

Watson was so startled that he stopped glaring, blinked, and couldn’t hold in a snort of wry amusement. The very idea that anything would stop Holmes from solving a case was so laughable. So unlikely that Watson would have chuckled in dark delight, that this man thought that kidnapping him was enough, if he hadn’t been gagged. There was absolutely nothing under the sun that Watson could think of that would stop a determined Holmes from solving a mystery. And the idea that Watson himself could have such power…

Well if that had been true then Watson would made use of that talent a long time ago.

No, all these men had succeeded was in was guaranteeing that Holmes _wouldn’t_ stop until they were in irons or dead.

“Are yo shure dis Professor M is right?” asked Broken Nose, cautiously. “I heard that the doctor hasn‘t even visited Holmes in over a week. ‘re they really dat close?”

Watson felt a deep pang of guilt and regret at this stranger‘s expression of doubt in Holmes and his friendship.

But it was true that it had been several days since he had stopped by Baker Street to pay visit to Holmes. He’d been so distracted in the last several days that he hadn’t had to time to see his friend. Watson hadn’t meant to ignore him but between his practice, Mary and meeting various members of Mary’s relations and close acquaintances, he simply hadn’t had time to so much as think about stopping by let along actually doing so. Since Mary had accepted his proposal, it seemed all he had been doing was meeting her family. He already had several dinners with her parents and had a numerous more to go before they even began organizing the wedding. Watson hadn‘t dared to get distracted by Holmes. This had been one of his reasons for avoiding Baker Street.

Watson had planned on paying a visit to Holmes shortly after the full moon. He promised himself that he would not wait so long next time. He would indulge his desire to see Holmes more often, even if it meant that he had to fight off invitations to join the man on his cases. Staying away from Holmes clearly was of no benefit when danger sought him out regardless of his efforts.

“Oh, I have no doubt that the information is accurate,” said Hat Thief, moving the tip of Watson’s walking stick right to Watson’s chest.

Watson narrowed his eyes on him, and considered that the man had no inkling that there was a blade in that cane. He held it with entirely too much careless regard to have the knowledge that a blade was within the hollow of the wood. He did not treat it with the care given to a weapon as he should have had he known the truth.

Watson considered this a benefit to keep in mind should he escape his bonds.

The hat thief leaned his weight against the cane and the tip dug painfully into Watson’s chest. Watson stifled a grunt.

“He will come for his friend, and when he gets here…” the hat thief’s voice trailed off and he grinned nastily. “Boom.”

Watson stared at him, and then he _looked_ around the room with greater care. He hadn’t seen them before, having his attention caught by his captors, but high up in the shadows of the building were cylindrical bundles.

Dynamite.

He followed the cords with horror stricken eyes and saw that they ran down to vanish under the wooden flooring. Watson had no doubt that there would be more explosives under the floor boards. He had noted how he was placed directly in the center of the room of the warehouse. Now, he wondered exactly how much dynamite had been placed directly below him. Watson rather suspected it was a large amount of the sort that he did not want to truly know considering his situation

He had already proven that he could survive one explosion. Watson wondered if another one was also possible. Yet the very idea that Holmes would walk into such a trap made him desperate with fear that had nothing to do with himself. Holmes wasn’t gifted with the accelerated healing that Watson had been granted by his particular condition.

If Holmes entered the warehouse seeking to rescue Watson then Holmes would die.

Just the thought was more than he could take and he strained against the restraints with renewed fervor. The coarse rope bit sharply into his wrists, into his legs and thighs even with his clothes providing protection but he didn’t care.

Following the explosion set by Blackwood, Watson had various nightmares about seeing Holmes caught in that inferno. He dreamt about not being able to stop his friend in time and woke up nearly weeping from the grief of finding his blackened body among the debris. Watson would not tolerate seeing his friend endangered. But even his valiant struggles proved no match against the thick rope that bound him. The high-backed chair that held in him place was made of solid oak. And unlike the rest of his surroundings it was not an old piece of furniture. It did not even creak from his efforts.

Yet Watson kept trying until he exhausted himself to a point in which he could no longer move.

His captors had thoroughly enjoyed laughing and mocking his efforts until he ceased to be entertaining and had wandered away to other business leaving the biggest man, the one that Watson had mentally labeled Dredger’s Distant Cousin to watch over him.

Other than their jeers, they left Watson alone, tied to the chair and anxiously keeping his eyes open for Holmes.

This vigilance meant that he was aware when night approached. Watson couldn’t see the moon when it rose but he could feel it in the painful throb of his shoulder. The scars there felt hot and tender. The moon was nearly completely full.

And Holmes had not found him.

It struck him then, as he stared up at the sliver of yellow moon that he could see through the cracks of the ceiling, that Holmes could possibly not have any notion that he was missing.

No one would.

Mary was out of town. Watson had informed his patients and housekeeper of his intention to leave for the countryside and that he would be out of contact for a couple of days. Holmes was fully aware that he left at the end of each month for a full day, at the very least, every month. Watson had long ago set the pattern of leaving London the day before the full moon having given his excuses of a patient that insisted on seeing him every thirty days like clockwork. No one, not even Holmes, would find anything suspicious about the situation. The horror that he had at the idea that Holmes would walk into a trap was now eclipsed by the knowledge of what would happen should he be here, in London, full of people instead at his country refuge when the moon rose tomorrow.

The nausea that had so swamped him after waking from the ether returned.

Whatever damage the dynamite would inflict… as soon as he became the wolf… the beast would outstrip such damage by a hundred fold. He had seen the sort of carnage the monster could cause to a platoon of armed soldiers in the space of one night. What it could do to a city full of innocents would be nothing short of catastrophic.

Watson moaned in despair and dropped his head. He struggled to control his breathing. He did not want to choke upon his own vomit even though such an undignified death would be preferable to the alternative should he still be captive unto the next night.  
*-*-*-*

He slept fitfully that night. Unable to become comfortable upon the chair he’d been tied. Too disturbed by his old wounds and his fears to find real rest. Still he managed to drift off enough to be caught off-guard when the hat thief returned and hit him hard enough that Watson’s head slammed against the backing of the chair.

Watson glared up at the man.

“Sherlock Holmes isn‘t even looking for you,” said Hat Thief, frowning at Watson. “Are you really of no consequence to him? Should we leave a piece of your body upon his porch before he understands the depth of the danger you are in?”

The man finally pulled the gag from Watson’s mouth in a quick and brutal movement.

Watson gave him a cold look.

The man hit him again.

Watson clenched his jaw and straightened his shoulders. The blows had triggered another head ache but he refused to talk. He wouldn’t be party to endangering Holmes, no matter how much he suffered for it.

The hat thief snarled in annoyance and pulled a gun from under his coat. He pressed it against Watson’s forehead. Watson stiffened and futilely pulled on the ropes.

“Tell me. Or should we see if your corpse will serve as equal bait as you would alive?” sneered the man. Watson was close enough to the man to see his dark eyes flicker as a thought came to him. “Or should I see if your pretty little blonde fiancée would be an equal draw to Holmes.”

Finally, unable to hold up against this threat to Mary, Watson relented.

“Holmes isn‘t aware that I am captured because he does not suspect that I am missing,” he admitted, his voice low with fury. “I was set to leave town for a few days and had been returning to my residence to retrieve my luggage.”

The man slowly drew his revolver back. His expression rather blank, then he laughed.

It was an unpleasant sound that made Watson’s teeth grind.

“Such an simple problem will of course have a simple solution,” chuckled Hat Thief. He motioned Broken Nose over to him who came over though slowly due to reluctance at being so close to Watson. “Bring me paper and ink. I will write a letter to Sherlock Holmes and inform him that I have his friend.”

“Yo thin‘ that will stop ‘im?” asked Dredger’s Distant Cousin as Broken Nose left to find the necessary supplies.

“I doubt it,” said Hat Thief with a smirk. “But it will cause the detective to search out his friend and then he will find the clues that will lead him here.”

“And boom!” said Distant Cousin.

Watson didn’t protest or try to point out to his captors that when it came to Sherlock Holmes things were never so simple. Instead, he considered that he no longer wore the gag that would have stifled any shouted warnings. That was another advantage he had gained.  
*-*-*-*

After Watson’s captors had sent off the letter to Holmes the time passed with such a lethargic speed that Watson could have sworn that every hour that passed was really three.

He mentally considered what actions Holmes would be taking, and tried to predict when the man would arrive. Watson knew that Holmes would verify that he’d been taken before he believed the letter was true. No doubt he would go to Watson’s home in Cavendish Place and find that luggage that Watson had never picked up.

He would know then that Watson had truly been captured and would launch his investigation as to Watson’s whereabouts. And while Watson had no doubt about the skill of his friend’s ability to find him, he was rather stuck on one point. Sherlock Holmes, before he ever read the letter would have to be awake, sober and willing to face the cold light of day.

That, more than anything, made Watson think that Holmes would not find him in time.

So as the sun moved closer to the East, John H. Watson, a sane and rational man by any standard, did something that would have labeled him mad by a diligent or even casual observer.

He asked, pleaded and eventually begged his captors to add the thickest chains they could find to his restraints. Suspicious and thinking it was trick, his captors refused and went so far as to gag him again to keep his pleas silent.  
*-*-*-*

In a situation that would have surprised Watson had he known about it, Sherlock Holmes was not at Baker Street suffering from his indulgences, hiding from the sunlight or tormenting the other occupants of 221A or 222A with loud noises that very morning.

Instead, he was quietly helping a man of high standing with the mystery of a stolen gold pocket watch.

Holmes was thoroughly bored by the entire situation and would have told the man, Lord Barkley, where he could find it since it hadn‘t been stolen at all - on the table of the gentlemen club that he preferred visit on Saturday evenings where he had absentmindedly left it - if he hadn’t been promised twice his usual fee for his time and personal attendance.

Holmes spend the entire carriage ride to the club being silent, taking in all the details of his surroundings. He categorizing faces and occupations from out in the street and upon entering the private club. There he scented the air of and caught different brands of smoking tobacco - the men here had a taste for American tobacco, though one of them liked a more exotic blend of tobacco with hashish.

It was the only point of interest of the entire visit.

Holmes collected his pay and left without word. He caught a hansom cab back to Baker Street and contemplated the miserable existence that was now his life. The necessity he had to earn more money in order to pay for lodgings meant that he could not turn away such a client, even when the case at hand was no mystery at all.

Briefly, Holmes considered the idea of getting another tenant for the rooms that Watson had vacated but was so thoroughly disgusted at the idea that he shuddered. Another man using their rooms as if they were his own? It was intolerable.

He much rather preferred that Watson returned. Barring that unlikely event, Holmes was resigned to dealing with dull cases that made money as he was far less likely to be allowed to be more discriminating when rent was due at the end of the month. He pressed Mrs. Hudson’s patience enough as it was.

Holmes arrived at Baker Street in a blackening mood so when he entered it he barely acknowledged his landlady.

“You have mail,” Mrs. Hudson said primly, as she dusted the paintings in the hallway.

Holmes grunted, pulled his hat lower and headed up the stairs.

“Breakfast and the letters are waiting for you in the sitting room,” continued Mrs. Hudson, raising her voice to Holmes’ back. “Though the tea is probably cold by now. You should have said you were leaving.”

Holmes groaned, opened the door and slammed it behind him.

The tray of tea and toast was on the table just as Mrs. Hudson had promised and it was thoroughly unappetizing. The pot of tea had ceased steaming an hour and twelve minutes ago if Mrs. Hudson followed her usual routine this morning. The promised letters were neatly stacked right next to the wooden tray.

Holmes ignored them. He petulantly threw his coat off, not caring where it landed. The sounds from the street were muffled but still sharp enough that he could categorize the passing of carriages, hansoms, sellers calling out their wares, and children shrieking to each other.

Annoyed, Holmes walked to the heavy curtains that Mrs. Hudson had flung open and firmly shut them to block out the din. The room sunk back into gloom and grey.

It suited his mood perfectly.

He dropped his pay in his desk drawer. His attention was caught by the empty space where a checkbook should have been. Holmes swallowed and slammed the drawer close. His mood soured further.

Everywhere he looked, everywhere he walked, every time he _thought_ of Watson… it was enough to drive a man completely mad.

Hoping that he could find something - anything! - to distract him, if only for the few minutes it would take to solve whatever inane puzzles the letters contained, Holmes picked up the stack and fanned them out to reveal twenty-three envelops. Two letters from solicitors went sailing through the air in the direction of the chimney. They were quickly followed by five advertising adverts. Ten requests for assistance by various policing agencies went onto the table, which included three from Scotland Yard though the rest came from outside of England. Two personal letters from associates. Four were addressed to Watson, which Holmes carefully set on the chair that Watson favored. The last letter caught Holmes’s interest. It had no return address, or even an stamp. It had to have been hand-delivered.

Interested despite himself by the little mystery, Holmes opened the letter and read it.

As soon as he finished he very calmly set it back down, stood up and picked up his coat again. The only sign that the letter had affected him, had hit him with such an impact that he barely could draw breath, was the fierce light in his eyes.

Before he left 221B, Holmes made a point of picking up his revolver, loading it bullets, dropping extra into a pocket and tucking the gun away into his coat for easy retrieval.

He estimated a ninety percent probability that he would be using it before day was over.  
*-*-*-*

It took him longer than Holmes liked to find a witness who had seen two men grab Watson from the street.

First he had traveled to Cavendish Place to verify that Watson had fallen into danger. It hadn’t even been a moments work to enter the lodgings, as he’d been given key nearly from the first day that Watson had set up residence there. He found the dark leather satchel that Watson preferred to carry when making trips that only ran to a couple of days.

It was then that Holmes knew that the letter was true. Watson had been captured. Taken by someone that had wanted to control Holmes. Someone with a ruthless personality that would have no compunction about harming Watson if he thought it suited his purposes.

The emotions that had nearly welled up at that moment would have swamped him from their intensity if he hadn’t been forcing himself to remain calm and cold. Frantic worry for Watson would have brought neither of them any benefit.

So he had continued to search the room until he was satisfied that Cavendish Place had no further clues to offer as to the whereabouts of Watson’s location.

Then he followed that path that Watson had taken. It was a boon that he knew Watson’s routine as it made retracing his steps a much faster task than usual. It was then that he had found the witness.

A beggar who reeked of alcohol and slurred the entire time he talked to Holmes insisted that he couldn’t be exactly certain that it had been Watson.

“Was he neat, limping and carrying a cane?” asked Holmes, impatiently. He held up a bottle of rotgut before the man whose runny eyes gleamed with a desirous light.

“Aye, ah believe sho,” said beggar.

“Show me,” said Holmes. “And this is yours.”

“Jus’ dhish way, sah.”

The alley, Holmes noted, opened up before a street that was a shortcut from the train station to the street led to Cavendish Place and perfect place to set up an attack. The alley had a narrow opening that was nearly hidden by a stack of wooden crates. It would be child’s play to set up a lookout to see the doctor approaching. Waiting until he passed the lip of the alley before grabbing him. Unless someone was keeping an eye on him, Watson would have vanished into the alley without anyone knowing better.

Holmes gave the bottle to eagerly awaiting hands of the beggar and entered the alley. He then scanned his surrounding with focused attention.

Details cropped up, as if lit by light. Scuff marks against the mud by the brick way. Small droplets of blood, so old they were dried brown, scattered along the scuffs leading in a trail to the West. Cheap cigar butts were ground a few feet away. No older than 48 hours old.

“They were waiting for you,” said Holmes, out loud to absolutely no one. “They were watching you, Watson. Damn it, how many times have I told you to watch the pattern of your behavior? You fall into routines so easily. I blame your military training.”

He sat back on his heels. Holmes had no difficulty in knowing what Watson would say to that.

“Yes, I have no doubt that I am to blame for this,” sighed Holmes. After all, what other reason would kidnappers have to go after a respectable doctor with a proper pretty fiancée - he ignored the bitterness in his own mental voice as irrelevant - and a thriving modest practice, if not for that doctor’s acquaintance with London’s only consulting detective.

Knowing now, that Watson had been specifically targeted - the careful setup of the ambush gave that away - then Holmes had no doubt as to whom was behind the attack. There was only one man he was investigating at the moment who would react in such a manner.

Rupert Redford, smuggler, drug-dealer and professional criminal. Thirty-two years old, born of a upper middle-class family that had lost its wealth due to the father‘s weakness for the races. Had one year of higher education and thought himself much smarter than he actually was. He surrounded himself with men who only reinforced that mistaken affection.

He had been the last case that Holmes had worked with the Yard.

Most important to Holmes, with the knowledge of who was the culprit he also had the knowledge of where to find Watson. Redford, like most other smugglers, would have a place to store his merchandise around the river. Specifically around any abandoned buildings, such factories or warehouses that littered that area.

Holmes had been tracking him since he began branching out into human trafficking. Specifically young English girls to sell in faraway ports where their fair-skin would fetch higher prices. Holmes had to go in disguise for three days to find the whereabouts of a girl, named Penelope, who had been taken two days prior. Her frantic family had sought out help from the Yard who hadn’t been able to provide much assistance until Lestrade had the good sense to advice them to seek out Holmes.

He’d manage to rescue the girl, who’d been in good health to the relief of her parents, but had failed to apprehend Redford. To Holmes’ dissatisfaction.

It was an unpardonable mistake as now Redford had chosen to retaliate by going after Watson.

Holmes swore to himself that he would not fail in seeing Redford pay for his crimes ever again.  
*-*-*-*

Watson closed his eyes as the last bit of sunlight that he could see through the ceiling faded away from bright orange to a pink-violet and then to a creeping blue-black.

The agony in his arm spiked to a near unbearable degree. He grunted and hunched in on himself.

The full moon was rising.  
*-*-*-*

Holmes approached the warehouse that he was certain was the location where Watson was held captive with caution and an uncharacteristic apprehension.

He had considered stopping by Scotland Yard in order to gain assistance from Lestrade and his men, or just Clarkie - who he quite liked - but had decided that the possibility of their presence alerting Redford far outweighed any benefits that they could contribute.

It was a risk that he could not accept. Not with Watson’s life and health at stake.

Holmes stealthily crept around the sides of the warehouse. He found a open knothole and looked inside. The sight he found there nearly made him cry out in relief.

Tied to a chair of oak - the grain caught by the dim light of an oil lamp revealed it as Pedunculate Oak - was Watson. He had no discernable injury. His head was bowed, gray cloth was tied around his mouth and thick coarse ropes tied in various binding knots - with Gunner’s knots around the chair legs - secured him firmly to the chair. Redford hadn’t taken any chances that Watson would have been able to loosen them to escape.

Two men stood at the far side of the warehouse. One, 6 feet 2 inches, with calloused hands of a sailor, clearly northern Scottish from the brogue that Holmes caught. The other was nearly a foot less in height, London born and bred. With a broken nose that was Watson’s work, Holmes would recognize it anywhere.

Holmes didn’t see Redford to his disgust. Then he caught a faint sweet and oily scent that didn’t fit the musty smell of wood rot surrounding the old building.

Nitroglycerine. Specifically dynamite.

Holmes narrowed his eyes. He flattened his body against the dirt ground and peeked in through the rotting boards under the foundations. It was too dark, especially with the fading light as the sun sunk into the horizon. He found an opening wide enough that he was able to wiggle through.

He ignored the squeaking rats and the rotting debris. Nearly at once he saw an electrical cord that trailed in from above. He followed it and he found ten sticks of dynamite tied right in the center of the warehouse.

Holmes’ eyes narrowed as he oriented its location to his mental map of the warehouse. The dynamite was directly below Watson.

Controlling his fury, Holmes found the electrical cord that led outside again. He couldn’t see the detonator from here but Holmes oriented the direction that it led and was certain that Redford had it set up to be just far enough way to avoid getting caught in the blast but still close enough to enjoy the carnage. There was another warehouse just a few buildings down that was situated at an optimal distance.

Holmes cut the electrical cord leading to the detonator with a quick sharp pull of one of his hidden knives.

Once satisfied to have put a damper on those plans, Holmes slithered out of the foundations, pulled out his revolver and was determined to find a way in to Watson. Even if he had to use every bullet that he had.  
*-*-*-*

Watson tightened his hands into such tight fists that his neatly trimmed nails cut into the skin of his palms. He shuddered in place as the pain from his shoulder spread across his chest, down into his abdomen and to his legs. Sweat beaded on his brow though his skin was cold.

Then the scars at his shoulder flared hot.

He lowered his head and bit hard at the gag to hold back a scream as the skin at the shoulder split apart. The pain grew and grew in intensity until Watson threw back his head in agony and stared up at the moon with helpless wide eyes. The silver moonlight fell against his face. It felt like a red-hot brand.

His two captors looked towards him in confusion as Watson let loose such a low animalistic growl that it made the hairs on the back of their heads stand up.  
*-*-*-*

Holmes paused behind an old splintered barrel at the sound of the growl. He checked his memory but could remember seeing any canine, and he couldn‘t categorize the breed from that sound. Puzzled he leaned over the barrel.

He froze in place at the sight before him.

“Watson,” Holmes whispered as his eyes widened.

Watson was convulsing. The skin of his cheeks seemed to tear open to reveal brown fur that dripped clear fluid. He was grimacing, with lips pulled back and Holmes could see his teeth grow into long ivory fangs. His entire body shook and broke apart the thick wood of the chair with loud cracks. The thick rope that had been restraining Watson snapped as if it had been nothing more than a thread as Watson’s body doubled in mass. His clothes ripped as fur covered muscles burst them apart at the seams.

A human scream emerged from Watson’s throat before abruptly turning into an inhuman howl of rage.

In mere moments, in the midst of shattered wood, broken rope and the tattered remains of Watson’s clothes stood a large wolf, bigger than any wolf could ever exist in nature.

The two men who had been guarding Watson were still. Even with the poor light Holmes could see their eyes were wide with fear.

Holmes felt unable to move as he was too taken aback by the clearly impossible thing he’d just seen before his very eyes.

Then the wolf raised his head towards the men and _snarled._

The Scottish man pulled out his gun while the other man turned around to run. Both actions were futile.

The wolf lept forward, crossing the long space between him and his prey in a heartbeat. Jaws snapped out and bit the gun out - taking the hand with it - of the tall Scottish sailor.

 _Recovery: Unlikely,_ Holmes thought, taking in all the details with detachment.

The man barely had the chance to scream before he was bowled over by the weight of the huge beast. On the dirty floor, he raised his undamaged arm for protection. But it was too late. Another flash of fangs and a spray of blood red fountained into the air.

 _Severed internal jugular vein and external carotid artery. Prognosis: Death in five seconds._

The surviving man was panicking and his fear cost him his life. He couldn’t get the door unlocked in time with badly shaking hands. Teeth caught his ankle, cutting through his Achilles’ heel and dragged him away from the exit.

That man just sobbed once, then blood sprayed the air again. Wet sounds of flesh being torn were quickly the only noise in the warehouse.

Until Holmes spoke again. “Watson.”

The soft whisper made the wolf’s ear prick up and then turn around to face Holmes. The growling creature stalked towards him with bared and bloody fangs. It was then that Holmes noted the odd gait. The wolf was favoring one of its hind legs. Specifically, the right leg, the same one that Holmes knew Watson had long ago injured.

Any remaining doubt that Holmes was harboring about this creature being his friend were wiped away no matter how impossible it seemed. This creature was Watson.

And, surprisingly enough considering that he had just seen two men fall to those long - 5.4 inches - fangs, Holmes did not feel any fear. After all this wolf was Watson. He had never had anything to fear from Watson as a man, why should he fear him as a wolf?

As Holmes had this thought the wolf stopped moving forward. He sniffed the air, and huffed a breath. The wolf stepped forward cautiously, keeping his eyes on Holmes. As he got closer, Holmes could see that out of everything that had changed in his friend, the eyes, those striking blue eyes that Holmes could paint perfectly from memory. Eyes that he knew better than his own, were entirely unchanged.

The huge wolf stopped moving about a foot away from where Holmes still leaned over the barrel. They stared at each other in complete silence for a moment.

“You could have told me you were a werewolf, Watson,” said Holmes, finally. He frowned, “though I can understand why you didn‘t. It is hardly the sort of condition that would be easy to explain. How long have you been turning furry under the light of the full moon?”

The wolf snuffed and moved forward until a cold nose nudged at Holmes’ ear.

Holmes stilled and let himself be sniffed. Too curious about the change that had come upon his friend, Holmes lifted a hand and settled it against the fur by the neck. The fur color wasn’t the shade of brown as he had first thought. It was a dark golden color, no doubt made to look darker when it had emerged wet, as it dried it had become paler. It also didn’t have the same feel as dog fur, Holmes noted as he sunk his fingers into the thick pelt. Possibly some cross of human and canine. Though he would have to inspect under a microscope it to verify his hypothesis.

Holmes inhaled sharply in surprise, as the muzzle that had been sniffing his neck now rubbed lightly against his cheek. Essentially, nuzzling him, though the streak of blood it left across his face was most unappealing. Holmes rubbed at it absently.

“Say, does your fiancée know about this little predilection of yours to turn into a wolf?” asked Holmes, unable to resist voicing the question.

That earned him another huff - in a tone that was definitely annoyed - of heated breath trailed across his neck.

“We have to get you to Baker Street,” continued Holmes, absentmindedly stroking the furred head. “But how to do so without being seen? I can hardly pass you off as Gladstone, or an exotic pet. No definitely not, you‘re practically the size of a horse.”

Whatever response Holmes would have received for this comment was never to be. For that was the moment in which Redford chose to open the door.

Instantly, the wolf pulled away from Holmes - nearly making him fall - turned around sharply and growled.

With surprisingly fast reflexes, Redford pulled out his revolver and shot at their direction. A pained yelp from the wolf made Holmes scramble for the revolver he had set down during his fascinated study of Watson‘s transformation. Yet before he could draw bead, the wolf was bounding forward.

Redford got off another shot before he slammed the door close behind him. Holmes heard the metallic click of the lock engaging and then rapid footsteps that quickly faded.

The wolf was momentarily blocked by the door but several swipes of powerful paws tore into the half-rotten wood. It took several seconds before the large wolf was able to open a sufficiently sized hole to squeeze through. Then he was off into the night.

“Watson! Wait! Watson!” shouted Holmes as jumped over the barrel. He ran to the opening and paused.

Watson as a wolf was nowhere to be seen.

As Holmes looked around for traces as to Watson’s location a long howl rent the London night air. It sounded too far away for him to catch even if he ran for all he was worth. Holmes made himself stop, turn around and go back into the warehouse.


	2. Chapter 2

It didn’t take Holmes very long to return to looking for the wolf.

He had walked out of the warehouse carrying in his pockets Watson’s personal belongings. Holmes had been able to fish them out of the torn rags that had once been Watson’s clothes. He had also gathered every scrap of cloth from the warehouse and had discarded the evidence of Watson’s presence there all around London in various rubbish bins as he returned to Baker Street for supplies to aid in his search.

Not even a coordinated effort from Scotland Yard would be able to gather them together and most importantly they would not be able to prove that Watson had been at the warehouse as a witness to the slaughter or been in any way responsible for what had killed those men. Holmes was certain that even Lestrade at his invetigative best - truly a rare event that had to be celebrated - would not have concluded that a man had turned into a wolf and proceeded to kill the two men who‘d been in Redford‘s employment.

Holmes, himself, would have regarded such an event as impossible if he hadn’t been witness to it with his own eyes. Even now he had a difficult time accepting that it was any supernatural act. Surely such a transformation could be explained by rational means, he had but to discover them. Not that he had the time for such contemplations, Holmes scolded himself. He had to find Watson and encourage him to follow him back to Baker Street before he caught the attention of Scotland Yard.

Or before someone panicked at the sight of such a large wolf in the middle of London and reacted violently. It was this thought that drew speed to Holmes’ steps.

Holmes was also driven by the need to contain Watson to prevent him from bringing harm to any innocent. In his current state, it would be entirely too easy for Watson to harm anyone that came into contact with him. Holmes didn’t believe that Watson would act in such a manner intentionally but considering his transformation as a predator and his access to a wolf’s instincts... Holmes estimated a probability of thirty percent that Watson would hurt someone, and fifteen that such an injury would be fatal.

And _that_ was something that Watson would never be able to forgive himself once he regained his humanity. Of course, if the person was Redford, Holmes gave that a estimation of death being the result a complete one hundred percent probability. Neither Watson or himself would lose sleep over it. The knowledge that Watson had been deliberately leaving London, in order to put distance between himself and the population, was now obvious. There had never been a patient that demanded Watson’s attention every thirty days. And here Holmes had thought that Watson was incapable of pulling off such a deception without him being aware of it. But then it hadn’t been a sudden habit that would have caught his attention and brought that falsehood to light. Watson had been leaving for the countryside since before he and Holmes had been introduced.

It reminded Holmes that he had to remember that of all the people in his acquaintance, criminals and law-enforcers alike, Watson was never to be underestimated. These are the thoughts that went through Holmes’ mind as he searched the streets of London for any hint of Watson, be it fur or fang.

Before he had left 221B Holmes had grabbed a large piece of raw steak from the icebox, no doubt intended as supper the following day but he rather thought it would serve a nobler purpose than merely being eaten in helping to find Watson. If the use of the meat could give him an advantage in drawing Watson to himself then he’d take it. It could be crucial in saving Watson’s life. Holmes had also decided the best way to find the wolf was by following the a common practice used by hunters all over the world. He first looked for the prey.

Watson had left chasing after Redford. If the criminal had managed to escape his fangs then he would go to a place where he could best protect himself especially with Watson following right at his heels. That Watson was hunting him of this Holmes had no doubt. Watson as a wolf had been quite clear in his intention to kill Redford considering how quickly he had launched an attack at the criminal. Watson would not cease stalking his prey easily. Whether he be wolf or man, Watson was a tenacious fellow. So Holmes would have to find Redford first.

Holmes knew where he would have to go, to Southwark. The Borough was Redford‘s favored bolt hole, with its access to transportation on the Thames and the London Bridge train station. The Yard had sought Redford in all the locations he’d been known to show his face after Holmes had tracked down the girl and returned her to her parents. The evidence that Redford was involved in the trafficking of human cargo had sent the Scotland Yard after him with a fervor but it hadn’t been a fruitful pursuit.

The advantage that knowing this gave Holmes was that he could eliminate those locations from his own search. Redford would not risk returning to them, not so soon at least. It had only been three days since Scotland Yard began to look for him.

The other advantage that Holmes had was when - he doubted it was an if, the wolf was too large to be easily overlooked even in a city like London- Watson was seen there would be an instant alarm that would be raised in his wake. That would make it easier for Holmes to narrow down the choices of where Redford was heading. As well as finding Watson. Watson’s wolf form wasn’t capable of being mistaken as a street cur, a pet or even a prize hunting hound that had escaped its kennel.

Holmes was already listening keenly for the screams.

And it wasn’t long before he heard them.

Frantic bells, piercing screams and the sounds of horses neighing in terror led him towards the Southwark Bridge. He ran forwards even faster and at such a great speed that the air snapped his black coat behind him like trailing wings. The closer Holmes got to the bridge more men and women of a various vocations were running in the opposite direction. He had to dodge several people, and nearly got clipped by a empty cab pulled by a panicked horse but quick spin to the side kept him out from under the hooves and wheels.

Holmes was halfway unto the bridge when he saw the silhouette of the wolf against the moon. The wolf was staring up at it as if mesmerized.

“Watson,” shouted Holmes, as he elbowed a man who tried to push him back. He pressed forward and soon found himself alone. Abandoned hansoms and carriages gaped open. Broken harnesses that had held horses littered the ground. The sharp smell of copper blood came from various locations - 3 feet to his left - 4.5 feet straight - 7 feet further ahead. There, a man had fallen and then had been pushed to the ground by the panicking people, leaving behind a hat. And there horse blood was smeared against the side of a cab where it had sliced itself against an expose nail also leaving behind brown horse hair.

And the thick trail of all this damage led straight to Watson.

“Watson, you need to come home… come to Baker Street,” Holmes corrected himself, as he moved closer to the huge wolf. He could see dark blood caking Watson‘s side. “You‘ve been injured. You‘re in no state to go chasing after Redford.”

The wolf eyed him silently and didn‘t move from his perch. Holmes pulled out the steak in the wrapped paper and opened it. Lupine ears pricked forward in interest. Holmes could hear him inhale to scent the night air.

“We have no time to waste,” continued Holmes, holding out the meat. “Come _on_ , Watson.”

The wolf leaped down from the top of the granite pier with a liquid movement marred only by the slight limp and padded towards him. Holmes held out the raw steak. With utmost delicacy, the wolf bit at the meat with his incisors and pulled it from Holmes’ hand before he swallowed it down in one swift flash of fangs.

Now that Watson was closer, Holmes could see the exact location where the blood had seeped from the wound caused by Redford‘s bullet. Holmes examined it carefully. He gently pulled the bloodied fur to the side and Watson grunted but didn‘t move away. The bullet had scored Watson’s flank and leaving a deep furrow that had bled copiously without actually penetrating below the muscle to harm any vital organs. Yet it was of sufficient depth that it would need to be treated and closed with stitches. Which regrettably, Holmes did not have on his person.

There were plenty medical supplies at Baker Street.

“Watson, give me some indication that you comprehend my words,” insisted Holmes. He grabbed the snout and forced Watson to look at him.

The wolf bared his canines and growled in warning. Even in a lupine face, Watson’s blue eyes blazed angrily at him.

Holmes paid it no mind, Watson often growled at him, even when he wasn‘t a wolf. “221B Baker Street, Watson. That is where you need to head. Do you understand?”

The wolf huffed and pulled away from Holmes with a jerk.

“You‘re no use to me like this,” Holmes said, frowning. “You need to hide out until you are back to your usual self.”

The wolf snorted.

Then a gun shot barked out shattering the silence and gouging the ground near Holmes’ feet. He flinched and dove behind a downed cab in sheer reflexive action.

Another shot rang out.

Watson staggered back a half step before crouching down. He growled, low and furious, and tensed to attack.

“No!” shouted Holmes, having seen the familiar glinting VR that was on the hats of the police officers of Scotland Yard. He could see the sequence of events in his head: Watson quickly jumping forward, the flash of fangs sinking into the police officer’s vulnerable throat, and pool of blood spreading beneath the wolf’s bulk.

The constable raised his revolver to shoot again. Holmes threw himself out and stood before the wolf with his hands raised.

“Stop!” Holmes shouted. He stayed firmly in place even with a huge wolf growling at his back and a gun pointed at his head.

The police officer - young, no older than twenty-four; blue-eyed and blond haired - hesitated and his aim wavered which is when Watson shot past him at a speed that made the constable stumble back in surprise.

Holmes stared after Watson until he disappeared into the street before he gave the young officer an annoyed look.

“I spend the last two hours trying to find him, you know,” Holmes grumbled and then set off after Watson. “And now I don‘t even have any steak left.”

The officer gulped, sat abruptly on the stone lined walkway and stared after them in wide-eyed disbelief.   
*-*-*-*

Holmes chased after Watson, following the miniscule traces of blood, blond fur, and clawed masonry. His worry about Watson’s wounds lessened as the amount of blood loss stopped completely after only a few minutes. Unfortunately, he lost the wolf a few moments later as Watson had decided that he would take to the rooftops for some inane reason.

As Holmes was not able to leap across the distance that measured the widths of entire streets, especially not with the added difficulty of trying to retain his footing on slick roofing, Holmes was forced to find another way to track Watson through London‘s streets.

But even with all his vaulted intelligence he could not. For the rest of the night, Holmes could hear Watson’s lupine howls sounding from different parts of the city but he never got close enough to him again that night.   
*-*-*-*

As the night ended with the moon descending into the horizon, Holmes headed back to Baker Street. He had not found Watson but he knew that the man would be returning to his human form as soon as the moon ceased gracing the night sky. The moonlight had been the trigger for his transformation and the lack would return him to human, of this Holmes was certain. He was also aware that it meant that Watson would be wearing nothing but his skin when this occurred.

Watson would not be pleased to awaken in such a state, not in the least. Had it been him, Holmes wouldn’t be at all bothered. But since Watson’s own modesty was much higher than his own, Holmes decided that he would be a good friend pick up some clothes for him. It was the least he could do for being the cause of Watson’s kidnapping in the first place.

Holmes was digging out a shirt that he was almost certain had once belonged to Watson - though he couldn’t be too sure as it was badly stained with chemicals - from under a stack of papers that were several weeks old when he heard a now familiar low growl and the rather faint sound of claws against wood. His head snapped up and he stilled to better listen. Again the sound of claws came with the muffled addition of the breathing of a large animal. Holmes ran to the window that looked over the back of 221 B and pulled apart the heavy curtains. Below him and crouched on the roof of the, now repaired and much sturdier, coal shed was the wolf.

Holmes stared at him before raising up the window, then he stepped back. “Well, come on in then.”

The wolf leaped through the opening, only cracking one panel of glass, and landed with a heavy thump that rattled a set of chemistry tubes and beakers Holmes had left on a desk across the room. A precarious stack of books fell over with an accompanying whump.

Watson then dropped into a crouch that was low to the floor and whined.

Holmes noticed that the time on the clock corresponded with the moment for moonset according to the almanac he had found. Holmes stared in interest as the wolf’s fur began to fall off. Watson whined again as his muscles clenched tight, then seemed to collapse. Pale skin began to show as more fur fell to floor. The half-human half-wolf twisted in place. Claws ripped into the thick carpet and then peeled away to reveal human nails that were trimmed neatly short.

The pained whimpers made Holmes tightened his hands into fists but there was nothing he could do to help.

In forty-eight seconds of this torment, instead of the wolf, there was a man.

Watson was back to human form and sprawled out on his front with his head cradled against his arms. His entire body was slicked with a viscous clear fluid. He trembled from exhaustion and cold.

Holmes could see the wounds - three: one from Redford, another from the constable whose bullet had Watson’s left shoulder and another on his hip, cause unknown - that Watson had taken during the night were nothing more than thin red scars. He sat down next to Watson and reached out to touch his undamaged shoulder.

“Watson,” Holmes said gently, before he found himself distracted by the fluid still on Watson’s skin. He rubbed it between his fingers. It was as dense as kerosene but not as slick. He brought it to his nose to sniff.

No scent.

He opened his mouth to taste it but a hand caught his wrist in a tight grip.

“Holmes, I have long ceased to berate you about the objects that you chose to put into your mouth,” Watson said hoarsely, looking up into Holmes‘ eyes, “as I accept that it is part of your investigative process. But I really must insist that you desist on this occasion.”

“Oh, very well. Since you are insisting,” said Holmes reluctantly. Watson‘s grip loosened and Holmes wiped his fingers on his trousers. Then he gave Watson a fierce stare.

Watson wasn’t looking at him. He was staring down at his hands with his head bowed.

“How many people did I kill?” asked Watson, quietly. His voice was steady but his hands shook.

“Two. Possibly three,” said Holmes, noting the tremors, and softening his tone.

Watson moaned, a low pained sound of the likes that Holmes rarely heard from him, even when his leg was hurting him severely.

“Oh, God,” whispered Watson.

Surprised, Holmes blinked at him. “Watson, they were the men that had captured you. They were the only casualties.”

Watson raised his head to stare at him. “Are you certain?” he asked, desperately.

“I certainly didn‘t come across any evidence of anyone else meeting their fate last night,” said Holmes.

And he hadn‘t. Though he had seen several injuries, all which had been caused by the panicked reactions of the mere sight of Watson as a wolf. None caused directly by him. “And I am quite certain, as I witnessed their deaths with my own eyes.”

Watson, who had looked reassured, went white at that sentence.

“You were there?” he asked, faintly. Watson swallowed hard. “Oh, Holmes, did I harm you? You must tell me!” Watson tried to pull Holmes close to examine him but he was still too weak to do more than clutch at his arm.

Holmes was taken aback. “Of course you didn‘t. Whatever makes you think that?”

Watson shook his head mutely. “I‘m dangerous. When I turn into that creature… it is as if I go mad.”

“You do not,” said Holmes, frowning at him. “You came right up to me as a wolf and did nothing threatening.”

Watson stared at him with wide disbelieving eyes.

“What? I don‘t understand how,” said Watson, bewildered, shaken and still horrified at this admittance that he had come so close to Holmes. If he had harmed Holmes or killed him… he would not have been able to live with himself. Never. “The wolf is dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Yes, you are a big beast,” said Holmes, in amusement. “But a danger to your fellow man? I saw no indication of that.”

“But those men that I killed, I ripped out their throats didn‘t I?” asked Watson, with a hard swallow.

“You don’t remember?” asked Holmes curiously, instead of answering.

“Holmes,” said Watson, in exasperation, at the lack of response. “And no I don‘t remember. When I change my memory is sketchy. All I can recall are vague impressions of the night. Even those are scattered and difficult to interpret.”

“Possibly the reaction of a man‘s mind being formed into the body of the wolf,” pondered Holmes, fascinated by this revelation. “After all a man is not a beast but if put into the form of one-”

“Holmes!”

“Yes, Watson,” said Holmes, giving his attention back to Watson. “You did act in such a fashion.”

Watson nodded grimly, his skin still in unpleasant pale color. He shivered and Holmes was abruptly aware that Watson was nude, and still wet with the lingering fluid.

Holmes stood up, went to his bedroom and dragged out a blanket. He draped it over Watson’s shoulder and encouraged him to stand up. Holmes had to take most of his weight, and gently led Watson to his bed. He tucked the blankets around him and set to leave when Watson’s voice stopped him at the door.

“Holmes, I‘m sorry that I never told you,” said Watson, drowsily, sleep already gripping him tight to drag him into unconsciousness. “It was just…”- his voice became softer - ” too terrible a secret. ”

Holmes paused, looked back at Watson and wondered if he was even awake enough to be aware of his apology but nodded slowly in response. “I understand why you didn‘t but nothing is too terrible when it involves you, old boy,” he said and then quietly closed the door behind him.

Out in the sitting room, Holmes knelt by the scattered fur that Watson had left all over the carpet and picked out a pinch of sample to examine. He held the blond fur up where the light of the rising sun hit it making it glow gold.

It then dissolved into white vapor that curled up lazily into the air before disappearing completely.

Holmes stared at his empty fingertips and then down at the carpet where all the remaining fur and fluids began to evaporate away as the sunlight became steadily brighter. As the sun emerged fully from the West, all the evidence of Watson’s tendency to transform into an enormous wolf vanished as if it had never been.

“Well.. that was unexpected,” mused Holmes. Then he stood up, grabbed his coat and headed out the door.  
*-*-*-*

Watson woke up groggy. His body ached with the familiar pains that came every morning following a full moon. Unexpectedly, he noted that he was lying on a soft mattress instead of a hard dirt surface. Watson opened his eyes and looked around.

“Oh,” Watson said to himself, as the memories of waking up to Holmes’ gaze returned to him. That would explain as to why he was currently in Holmes’ bedroom at Baker Street instead of in the woods.

He flushed as he remembered his naked state. He’d been too exhausted and concerned if he’d murdered anyone that he hadn’t cared that he had no clothes before. After several hours sleep, he was forcibly conscious that he was completely nude and had no access to the luggage that he had carefully prepared for his trip.

And more embarrassingly, he was in Holmes’ bed while in this state.

It was enough to put a permanent stain of red to his cheeks.

Watson was all set to lay back under the covers before he remembered that he had never been able to successfully retrieve all of his clothing from Holmes‘ possession. There were bound to be several shirts, trousers and possibly even a waistcoat still in here that he would be able to wear.

He got out of the bed slowly. Sore muscles that always ached after a full moon were not as painful as he was used to, a rest in a bed had been useful, Watson noted. Yet they still hurt sufficiently to make him careful of not moving too quickly. The scarred tissue of his shoulder at least had ceased flaring up in agony. The pain would return with the moon but at least the worry that he would be once again transformed into a beast was over.

His nightmare could be just a formless horrific dream for another month.

Watson stood on shaky legs and limped to Holmes’ wardrobe. He opened it up slowly and cautiously. His wariness was justified as books, clothes and something metallic tumbled out and just missed hitting his bare feet by inches.

Watson winced at the clatter and sighed in exasperating at Holmes’ mess that was so familiar that he actually found himself feeling nostalgic for a moment. At least until his sanity returned.

He did note with the depth of disorder chaos that was Holmes’ bedroom it meant that his own addition wouldn’t make much of a difference. So he ceased being careful and set to find something to wear. He found one of his shirts at the bottom of a wardrobe, pulled it free and slipped it on. He fitfully pulled at the wrinkles before admitting to the futility. Watson then grabbed a set a trousers, noticed that it was too small for him before he absently folded it and picked up another pair that was actually his size.

Watson looked around for a waistcoat and found none that fit him. He just began to head into the sitting room to see if he could find one when he was hit by a memory that made him stumble and gasp for air.

One of his captors - Broken Nose - sobbing once before he was ripping out the man’s throat with his teeth. The memory of the hot copper taste of blood made Watson gag and struggle to breathe.

He slid to the floor, ignoring the protest from his leg, and shook.

He remembered the feel of flesh under his mouth, the taste of human blood in his mouth, and the expression of terror in the man’s face just as his life ended.

Watson pressed his palms to his face and struggled to calm himself.

This was different. Much more different than killing a man with a bullet. It was ripping out a man’s throat with his _own_ mouth. Tasting his blood with his _own_ tongue.

Possibly even eating the man’s flesh. Watson had no recall of it. And he was desperately afraid of such a memory returning to him.

Watson struggled to his feet and barely made it to the dustbin in time to vomit out bile triggered by that thought. His stomach emptied itself until he dry heaved and his abdomen ached. It took a moment for the nausea to subside. Watson wiped at his mouth and then at his watering eyes.

Holmes had told him that he hadn’t hurt anything else other than his captors but with that memory in his head Watson found it impossible to consider himself anything other than what he really was.

A monster.   
*-*-*-*

It took Watson far too long to find a pair of shoes that fit him. Not because Holmes’ shoes were not his size but rather because he kept finding only one of the pairs. By the time that Watson was ready to head out into the street he heard the familiar footsteps of Holmes coming up the stairs. Resigned to have lost his opportunity to escape without having to satisfy Holmes’ curiosity, Watson found the chair that he had always thought as ‘his’ - and he rather thought that he always would - and sat down to wait for Holmes.

The fumbling at the door made him straighten and when the door opened all that Watson could see of Holmes was a pair of legs and arms holding a stack of books.

“Let me help you with that, Holmes,” said Watson, rising up to help.

“No, that‘s quiet alright, Watson. Sit. Sit,” said Holmes, as he closed the door and walked carefully to the table.

Watson watched with fascination as Holmes managed to navigate the detritus that was scattered across the floor without once tripping or hitting anything that could have caused him to lose control of his balance.

As he got closer, Watson was able to read the titles of the books, which included _Dialogue de la Lycanthropie, De Lycanthropia, Annales Medico-psychologiques_ and even the ridiculous _Restitution of Decayed Intelligence_ among others that he didn’t recognized. Watson sighed in irritation and said, “Those are not going to be of any use to you.”

Holmes set down the book stack on the floor and sat down next to them. He picked up the first book of the stack and began flipping through it. “What makes you say that?” asked Holmes.

“I‘ve read those books,” said Watson. “They don‘t have any information that isn‘t rubbish.”

Holmes stopped reading and looked up at Watson with an amused expression. “Are you saying that you don‘t have bristles under your tongue? This is clearly something I need to verify for myself. Open your mouth for me.” Holmes got to his feet and peered closely at Watson.

“Holmes!” Watson protested. “Be serious.”

“I am being perfectly serious,” insisted Holmes with a straight face but his eyes were smiling.

Watson didn’t believe his façade for a moment. He shook his head in disbelief. “This is all you have to say about this.” He gestured at the books then at himself.

Holmes’ amusement lessened but didn’t vanish entirely.

“What I did to those men-” continued Watson, his tone bitter.

“Is nothing less than what I would have done,” interrupted Holmes. “I would have killed them with my revolver in rescuing you and they would have been just as dead.”

Watson stared at him and then shook his head in denial. “Holmes, if you don‘t see the difference between shooting a man and -” Watson swallowed hard, the unhappy flatness of his mouth was partially hidden by his mustache, “- and ripping out his throat. Then I can‘t explain it to you.”

Holmes’ expression was now entirely sober. “I see. But I must disagree with you. You were not a man nor subject to a man‘s ethical decisions.”

Again, Watson shook his head in denial but Holmes ignored him.

“Then tell me this, Watson. When in the shape of a wolf, how did you expect to combat those hooligans? With your fists? With a gun?” asked Holmes, a tiny smile curving at the corners of his mouth. “What a sight that would be, a wolf trying to shoot a man with his paws. Almost as extraordinary as seeing a man turn into a wolf.”

Watson opened his mouth to protest and found he had no counter to bring to Holmes’ logical reasoning. He found that as he thought about it that it did lessen the self-loathing he had been feeling but not entirely.

“I don‘t understand,” Watson said, mostly to himself. “How it is possible that no one else was hurt. Last time-” Watson cut himself off.

Holmes looked at him with interest. “You become a wolf in London before? I‘m certain I would have read _that_ in the newspapers.”

“No,” answered Watson. “I have been careful never to let such an event happen.”

“Then you were thinking about when you were bitten by the werewolf that attacked you,” said Holmes.

Watson nodded, too used to Holmes’ sharp observational skills to be surprised that he had figured it out.

“Answer me this, Watson. The man who was ultimately responsible for it. Was he an Afghani soldier?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, he was. What makes you ask me this?” asked Watson, bewildered by the question.

“I did observe you when you were transformed, and I can tell you that the only times you were in the least bit aggressive was when you were under direct threat,” said Holmes. “If you hadn‘t been held captive when the full moon rose then I suspect that you would not have killed anyone at all. Those actions were solely as a result of that impetus. And in turn when that Afghani werewolf attacked you it was only because the man saw you as a threat.”

“Dozens of men died that night, Holmes,” said Watson, in disbelief.

“Yes, and they were all English, weren‘t they?” asked Holmes. “Was any Afghani killed as well?”

Watson struggled to remember. Those memories were too muddled with pain but he tried to recall if the casualties incurred by the werewolf attack that night had included any natives.

“I think that those deaths were the direct result of combat with our forces,” answered Watson, slowly.

“There, you see. The mind of the man may not be entirely in control of the wolf, but some aspect of it does live on in the beast,” said Holmes, pleased. “You should not bother yourself with needless worry. Your actions were not at all dishonorable.”

Again Holmes picked up another book from his stack to read.

Watson just sat in his chair, stunned by this revelation.

A bubbling delight filled him at the thought that maybe he had been too swift to label himself as a monster. Maybe Holmes was right. Maybe there was a chance that he was more than an inhuman murdering animal when under the sway of the full moon.

The nearly intolerable weight that he had been under so for so long - the crush of it had nearly destroyed him when it had first landed under his shoulders - began to lose its pressure on his heart, soul and mind.  
*-*-*-*

It didn’t take long for Holmes to cease trying to find some true fact in the stack of paranormal books he had brought to Baker Street. His patience ran out when he got to the part that the physical signs of a werewolf included long curved fingernails, low set ears, a swinging stride and a unibrow. When one considered that Watson’s nails were neatly trimmed, his ears were beautifully shelled specimens, and his eyebrows were two distinct features... well Holmes just gave up on getting any accurate information from them.

He was contemplating using them as kindling when Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door.

Holmes nearly snapped at her to leave them be but for the expression on Watson’s face which looked so hunger stricken that Holmes grudgingly invited her to enter.

“Doctor Watson!” cried Mrs. Hudson, as she got past the door. The porcelain plates rattled in on the polished wooden tray as she bustled forward in delight at the sight of Watson. “Oh, you should have told me you were visiting. I would have made more breakfast.”

“He can have mine, Nanny,” said Holmes, still giving the books an annoyed look.

“Thank you, Holmes,” said Watson, too hungry to argue that Holmes shouldn’t skip a meal.

“Are you feeling well, doctor?” asked Mrs. Hudson, in concern as she took Watson’s mismatched clothing and the tired hollows under his eyes. In Holmes, this appearance would have only prompted a sniff of distaste from her, maybe even a cutting remark.

Watson was clearly her favorite, Holmes noted for one hundred and fifty-second time this year alone. Yet another reason as to why Watson should return to Baker Street, Holmes thought to himself. Watson made an excellent buffer against _nanny._

“It‘s quite alright, Mrs. Hudson,” said Watson, reassuringly, managing to dredge up a small smile for the concerned landlady.

Mrs. Hudson didn’t look like she believed him and had shifted her gaze to glare down at a deliberately oblivious Holmes. “I‘ll bring you more tea,” she said to Watson, when Holmes refused to meet her eyes. “I‘m always glad to see you at Baker Street, doctor.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” called Watson, as she closed the door to the sitting room. Polite pleasantries having been satisfied, he cut into the eggs and toast.

Holmes rescued a sausage from the serving tray for his own consumption. He stared as Watson devoured the entire meal and all but licked the plates clean.

“I never did get an answer for my question,” said Holmes, as soon as he thought that Watson could actually respond since his mouth wouldn’t be full of food.

“What question?” asked Watson, confused, as he reached for the last of the tea in the pot.

“Well, I guess that I shouldn‘t have expected an answer, you were furry and not in the possession of a human throat at the time,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.

“Holmes,” said Watson, exasperated.

Holmes gave Watson a sharp and penetrating look. “Have you told Miss Morstan about your lycanthropy?”

Watson flinched and the hot tea spilled over his fingers. He hissed and quickly set it down. He grabbed a linen napkin and wiped away the liquid.

Holmes watched this all quietly and caught Watson’s eyes when he looked up.

“She doesn‘t know,” said Holmes, seeing the truth in Watson’s eyes. It was verified when Watson looked away.

“No, she doesn‘t.”

“Watson, how do you expect to have any kind of lasting relationship with her if you keep such a thing from her,” said Holmes. “Unless it is because you don‘t think it will last.”

Needled by the truth of this observation, Watson snapped, “I managed it quite well with you.” And regretted it at once.

Holmes nodded slowly. “Yes, but as you have previously pointed out, you are not marrying _me._ ”

They both looked away from each other.

“I can‘t tell Mary,” whispered Watson, deliberately breaking the uncomfortable silence that had become intolerable, with a truth that was nearly so. “I can‘t risk her seeing me differently.”

“I don‘t,” admitted Holmes, look back at him. “See you differently that is.”

“I can’t risk it, Holmes,” repeated Watson. His tone became disbelieving, “Are you honestly saying that you don‘t see anything different about me? Not at all?”

Holmes reached out and cradled the hand that Watson had burnt with tea in his own palms.

“This is the hand of a doctor. A man with honor, courage and integrity, who has stood at my back and fought at my side for years against the corrupt and criminal,” said Holmes. “It is the hand of a friend who has been patient with my own black moods and only occasionally complained.”

“I never complained,” murmured Watson without heat, though his heartbeat increased with every word from Holmes until a flush rose up into his cheeks.

Holmes kept his eyes on Watson’s hand, though a smile now tugged at his lips. “Yes. Of course, my mistake. And you - this paragon of patience - you still had this tendency towards lupine transformation. Just because I now know about it, it doesn‘t mean you have changed.” Holmes paused, then lightly tapped the skin on the back of Watson’s hand that should have been red from the hot liquid only moments before but was now completely normal in appearance. “If anything, knowing the truth clears up a few things, like your ability to heal so quickly.”

He trailed a finger over the pale skin, fascinated by the speed in which it had returned to normal. Holmes was idly wondering if he would be able to convince Watson to volunteer to be the subject of certain experiments. He suspected not. Better not to ask and risk getting punched in the face.

“And knowing about this talent, I can‘t help but be grateful for it,” continued Holmes. “It is the reason that you survived the explosion at Blackwood‘s factory, isn‘t it?”

“Yes,” admitted Watson.

“And you want me to find something monstrous about it,” stated Holmes, shaking his head. “No, old boy. I‘m afraid that you are still the same Watson to me. Though, with the added benefit of knowing you are much hardier than I had previously thought.” Holmes pressed a kiss to Watson’s uninjured skin.

Watson inhaled sharply the boldness. Holmes never… he didn’t act like this.

They stared at each other again.

Until the sound knocking and thick leather boot climbing the stairs made them break apart.

By the time Constable Clark had passed Mrs. Hudson’s guardianship at the door, both Watson and Holmes had a perfectly respectable distance between them.

“Come on in, Clarkie,” called Holmes, before the constable could knock at the door.

“Sir! Inspector Lestrade wants to see you- oh! Pardon me, doctor,” said Clark, pulling his hat off respectfully, “I wasn‘t aware you were visiting.”

“Don‘t let me interrupt,” said Watson, nodding at Clark to continue.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Holmes, the inspector wanted to let you know that Redford was seen at the location you gave us, but he slipped away before we could make an arrest,” said Clark.

Watson bared his teeth at the mention of Redford but manage to keep his urge to growl in check.

“He slipped away?” asked Holmes, in irritation. “From a building set in a dead end street?”

Constable Clark shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Ah, yes, sir. I‘m afraid so.”

“Wonderful,” said Holmes, sarcastically.

“It never fails,” agreed Watson. They shared a companionable look of shared understanding of having to deal with the frustrations caused by the ineptitude of Scotland Yard.

It wasn’t that the Yard was staffed by idiots, but rather that their level of interest in forensic science wasn’t as high as that shared by Holmes or even by Watson. Their goal was to solve as many cases as possible which often meant their methods lacked subtlety, patience and accuracy. They were more often used to dealing with crimes that were not mysteries so that anything too convoluted tripped them up.

“Very well, I‘ll be ready in a moment,” said Holmes. He was already looking around trying to remember where he set down his revolver.

Clark nodded and headed back out to wait by the porch.

“I‘m coming with you,” said Watson.

Holmes paused in search for the gun. “That may not be the best idea.”

Watson’s blue eyes flashed with anger. “And why not? The man had me kidnapped and held for days in a dynamite infested building. You can’t possibly be worried about me, not when you just pointed out that I‘m much harder to hurt than you thought.”

“It isn‘t that,” denied Holmes, though it was not exactly completely true. “I made sure that there was no trace of you left at the warehouse where you were held. If Redford sees you and starts making accusations… no it‘s better not to risk it at all.”

“You did what?” asked Watson in total surprise. He stared at Holmes.

Holmes finally found his revolver under his hat. He put the gun in his pocket and the hat on his head before he headed towards the door.

“Holmes!” Watson shouted after him. “What did you do?!”

“We can talk about this later!” Holmes shouted back through the walls. “Stay. I‘ll be back before you know it.”

The downstairs door slammed loudly as Holmes left.

“Stay,” repeated Watson, annoyed. He glared at the closed door. “Next you will order me to sit or roll over. I am not your dog, Holmes.”

Driven by his irritation, and his earlier determination to get home, Watson decided that he would return to Cavendish Place.

If Holmes wanted him, he could find him there.   
*-*-*-*

“Well, Holmes, aren‘t you going to insult me for letting, Redford get away? You might as well get it out,” said Inspector Lestrade, as he watched Holmes approaching.

“I loathe the idea of being so predictable,” said Holmes, as he passed him and entered the building where Redford should have been captured. “But if you insist I can oblige.”

“I don‘t,” Lestrade sighed and followed. Constable Clark trailed after them both.

Holmes looked around, noting the neat stack of wooden crates in front of the far wall while the rest of the warehouse was in a greater disorder of scattered boxes, crates, barrels and even a iron-wrought chest.

“You still haven‘t explained how you knew this was where Redford would go,” complained Lestrade, as he watched the way that Holmes stopped and stared at various objects.

Holmes knocked on the wooden flooring with his knuckles before shifting two feet forward to knock again. “No, I didn‘t.”

Lestrade waited for him to continue and when he realized that Holmes wasn’t going to explained he pursued his lips. He snapped, “Will you at least explain what you are doing?”

“Why should I explain?” asked Holmes, when he rapped again, this time the sound came back different. It was also near the stack of crates he had noticed. “When I can show?”

Lestrade jumped as Holmes triggered a hidden latch that made the entire wall of crates slide to the left by little over a foot revealing a gap in the floor.

“Hmm, a tight squeeze but more than possible for a man of Redford‘s physique,” said Holmes.

Lestrade peered over his shoulders.

“As you can see Lestrade, Redford was prepared for the eventually of being surrounded by London‘s finest and created an escape route,” continued Holmes. He sniffed deeply. “By the scent of excrement, I‘d say that he cut into the sewers.”

Lestrade’s mouth curled up in disgust. In his best authoritative voice he ordered, “Constable Clark, you will-”

“Yes, sir. I‘ll get some men to look in the sewers for Redford,” cut in Constable Clark.

Lestrade nodded in acceptance of this.

Holmes hide a grin at how neatly Clarkie had avoided being stuck with the duty of the sewer search. He knew there was reason he liked the constable.

“Well, were do you think he went now?” asked Lestrade, directing his question at Holmes

“Considering that most of his bolt holes have already been discovered…” Holmes trailed off as he was struck by a horrific thought.

Before this Redford had been pushed to the point that he had decided to use Watson against him. An action he undertook to make Holmes cease trying to find him and secure his freedom.

But instead, Holmes had found his last refuge and had taken _that_ measure of safety from him.

“He has nothing left to lose,” said Holmes softly. Then he straightened up and began running out the door.

“He has nothing left to lose? What do you mean by that?” demanded Lestrade after him. “Holmes!”

But Holmes just kept running.  
*-*-*-*

Watson had to walk all the way to Cavendish Place since he no money on him. While Holmes had returned his personal belongings including his pocketbook, it had been emptied out by one of his captors. The walk was already uncomfortable since he was wearing Holmes’ shoes but it was made more intolerable since he didn’t have his walking stick to aid him. He had to move slowly to keep any cramps from setting in.

By the time Watson limped to his lodgings his leg ached fiercely. Watson was so tired, hurting, and grimy from his romp through the streets of London as a wolf that all he was thinking about was a bath and set of clean clothes that actually fit.

Fortunately, he wasn’t too tired not to notice the new scratches around the lock of his door.

Briefly he considered not entering at all but then his temper flared, hot and sudden.

He had been kidnapped, threatened and had revealed a secret he had never intended to have come out. He was _not_ going to be kept out of his own home now. No matter who was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

Driven by his anger but bracing himself for any sign of danger, Watson slowly entered his lodgings. His hands were clenched into tight fists.

Even with this added caution to his actions, Watson was caught off guard when a familiar cane of rare African snakewood slammed against the back of his head.

Watson groaned and dropped to his knees, dizzy with pain. He looked up and even in the dim lighting he was able to make out Redford raising his arm to strike again.  
*-*-*-*

Holmes tore through the streets of London, using his extensive knowledge of every shortcut in the city and jumping on the back of quite a few carriages to get back to Baker Street in record time. As he slammed the front door open, Mrs. Hudson shrieked in surprise and pressed her right hand to her bosom.

“Oh dear god in heaven,” she muttered as Holmes went past her.

“Watson!” shouted Holmes as he ran up the stair without a loss of speed. He opened the door to his rooms and halted at once at the emptiness revealed therein.

He narrowed his eyes and cautiously walked in. His dark eyes flicked taking every detail.

“Doctor Watson left an hour ago,” called up Mrs. Hudson.

“Of course, he did,” said Holmes, then he spun and ran out the door again.

As he ran to Cavendish Place, Holmes frantically tried to think out the scenarios he would find there. He kept coming back to the idea of finding Watson dead. The probability was too high.

It took every bit of his emotional control to keep himself from reacting at the series of mental images - Watson shot or stabbed or strangled or - he had to make himself stop by reminding himself that it was highly illogical to make such deductions without any reasonable data.

At least until he thought that it wasn’t unlikely that Redford would try to finish the task he’d began by kidnapping Watson in the first place.

Revenge.  
*-*-*-*

Holmes entered Cavendish Place with his revolver drawn and his heart pounding away.

He had noticed the same metal scratches at the door, as well as dirt from near the Thames at the porch. He breathed deeply and noted the copper tinge of blood drifting through the air like poisonous perfume.

 _This mustn‘t register at an emotional level,_ he thought and knew he was lying to himself. He ignored the cold worry pressing down on his chest and kicked in the door.

The sight he found nearly made him collapse to the floor… from sheer bloody relief.

Watson was sitting on Redford’s back, digging a knee into the small of his back. He also had his recovered sword cane in hand and was pressing the sharp blade tightly to the criminal’s neck where tiny beads of blood welled up.

Redford was staying very still and only this meek submission kept the sword from slicing deeply into his throat.

Holmes noted that the scent of blood had come from a cut from the side of Watson’s head that bled profusely, a noted tendency of head injuries. It stained the left Watson’s temple and had even dripped onto his collar.

This blood combined with the angry expression on Watson’s face made Holmes think that the wolf in Watson was still strong in him even without the moonlight helping it manifest.

It made also made Holmes contemplate interesting thoughts of how much the wolf and the man intermingled or whether this predator aspect had always been a part of Watson’s personality.

“Holmes, are you just going to stand there?” asked Watson, annoyed.

“I am merely enjoying the scenery,” said Holmes, cheerfully. He causally pointed the revolver at Redford.

“Please tell me that Lestrade is right behind you,” said Watson, as he shakily stood up and away from Redford.

Holmes didn’t bother to answer the question since he knew the answer was one that Watson wouldn’t like. Instead he asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” answered Watson, as he delicately touched the back and the side of his own head, “Just a mild concussion. I‘ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“I‘ll tell the Yard,” hissed Redford at them. “You lot killed my men.”

“Hmm, and I wonder who they‘ll side with when we tell them that you had set out to kill us and we acted to defend ourselves,” asked Holmes, coldly. “I‘m certain that Inspector Lestrade will be interest to learn of where you managed to acquire so many sticks of dynamite. As well as your smuggling contacts. Get up and sit in the chair.”

Redford slowly got to his feet.

Watson went to go find some rope. He knew that he had some around somewhere. It had come in handy before.   
*-*-*-*

It was the work of a moment to get a messenger down to Scotland Yard and before the hour was up, Lestrade had stopped by Cavendish Place, picked up Redford and reminded them to come in for questioning the next day.

Lestrade would have demanded that they go with him that very moment but Watson’s disheveled and bloodied appearance had earned him and Holmes some lenience from the Inspector.

Redford’s rants about being chased through London by a giant wolf and blaming Holmes and Watson for it were thoroughly ignored.

“Because everyone been saying they were chased by a wolf last night,” explained Constable Clark when Holmes has asked. “The inspector says that some wild animal got loose and everyone‘s reacting like they were moonstruck because it was full moon. People always act crazier during a full moon.”

“Well, if that was Lestrade thinks, who are we to argue with him,” said Holmes, shooting Watson an amused look. Watson arched his eyebrows right back. “Thank you, Clarkie. Don‘t let us keep you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Clark, nodding respectfully and donning his cap as soon as he was out the door.

“Holmes, there’s something else,” said Watson.

“Oh, what pray tell is there? Redford has been caught, his men are dead, there are no damsels to rescue…”

“I don‘t know why I didn‘t make the connection before,” continued Watson, ignoring Holmes’ levity. “But Redford mentioned he got the information that led to my capture from a Professor M.”

Holmes froze.

Watson could practically see the speed of his thoughts in his eyes.

“Mortiarty,” Holmes said flatly. “He‘s stepping up his plans. Using Redford as a feeler to see how I‘d react to a threat to you.” Holmes stared hard at Watson. “He‘ll come after you again.”

Watson nodded in agreement. “I thought as much.”

“No. I won‘t tolerate it,” said Holmes, he jumped to his feet and began pacing. “He tried to use Irene against me and failed. Now, he‘s trying to use you.” Holmes didn’t need to say it aloud that this was one avenue of attack that would actually succeeded.

Watson understood anyway.

“Then we stop him before he sets his plans into action,” said Watson, calmly. “Don‘t forget, I‘m a lot harder to hurt than you‘d think.”

“No, you‘re not getting involved,” said Holmes, determined.

“Holmes! I‘m already involved. I was taken off the street and held prisoner for two days, remember,” glared Watson. “Mortiarty is responsible. I‘m hardly about to let that go.”

Holmes looked away. “Yes, you are. You no longer work cases with me, remember? What would Mary say?”

Watson’s head jerked as if those words had struck a physical blow.

“She would be the first to insist that we put Mortiarty behind bars. That we work until he no longer poses a threat,” said Watson calmly. He took deep breathe, “And I‘m not about to let you face him without me at your side. Mary understands how I feel perfectly well.”

Holmes considered. Watson was _incredibly_ tenacious. Holmes, himself, had never been able to convince him to follow another path than that which he was determined to follow.

And so he agreed. With one condition.  
*-*-*-*

“I am not comfortable with this, Holmes,” said Watson, as he put away his satchel.

Holmes cheerfully added his own leather bag to the luggage space of their private train compartment. “You agreed, Watson.”

“I‘m aware of that,” snapped Watson, then he sighed and sat down opposite from Holmes. “I still can‘t help but think that having you around during the full moon will be dangerous to you.”

“Nonsense,” said Holmes, he stretched out to grab Watson’s hand. “Then think of it as a holiday for the two of us. We get to enjoy Mycroft‘s estate and the fresh country air.”

“I find it disturbing that you are enjoying the thought so much,” said Watson, warily.

Holmes just smiled and laced their fingers together. After a heartbeat, Watson gently squeezed their hands together.

“Or maybe, I‘m simply enjoying the thought that I didn‘t have to marry you to get you into the country alone with me,” said Holmes, impishly.

“Holmes!” groaned Watson.

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Werewolf!Watson is fun but naked transformed Watson is so much better. Heh.


End file.
